The House of the Rising Sun
by Broadway
Summary: Last chapter, folks. The author wanted a real weepy-tragic end to the story, but her readers wanted sweet and smiling. She settled for bittersweet. ENJOY
1. Default Chapter

Notes: A "FLASH" sign means, obviously, the story is going back in time. I don't own Marvel characters (thus making them Marvel's, duh!) or the song "House of the Rising Sun," but it's awesome and if you haven't heard it, go figure out a way to!   
  
  
  
  
  
THE HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN  
  
  
Belladonna's face smiled up at him from the cover of Venus magazine. The price had rose to 35 cents at the corner drugstore on account of his beautiful supermodel wife gracing the cover.   
  
'Bitch,' Remy thought, tossing the copy back on the coffee table. He opened his small bag and executed a mental checklist for the hundredth time. It wasn't much; it was precisely what a man needed. He swiped a hand across his tired face to relieve some of the tension behind his eyes and rose from the plush white leather sofa to gaze onto the busy streets of New York from the apartment he and Belle shared. People scurrying to and fro, making great haste to reach their oh-so important destination.   
  
Ah yes, the city. It was savage; it was brutal; it was quick, constant and cynical.   
  
It wasn't Remy. He had to leave. He was suffocating. The lawn parties, the photographs, the flashy smiles from the painted mouths that would just as soon chew you up and spit you out. He had to leave.  
  
But more importantly, he had to go back.  
  
Bella entered and he turned from his spot by the big window. Her glamorous eyes shining bright like camera light bulbs dimmed at the sight of him--his body drained of passion and eyes tired.   
  
How long had he been this way? When did his brilliant eyes lose luster? When did his life drain at the fingertips and his charming smiles became weak and practiced?  
  
Remy met her spring-blue eyes. He waited for her to arrive so he could tell her face-t-face. He could never just leave a note. Remy flinched at the thought.   
  
"I have to go, Belladonna." His voice caressed the four syllables because he knew it was the last time her name would ever utter forth from his lips.   
  
She didn't sprawl at his feet and bawl, nor did she lash out, demanding he stay, both for which he was grateful. She simply stood with her arms folded across her chest and asked through thinned lips, "Why? Haven't I done everything? Wasn't I everything?" A small sob escaped her and she pinched a hand across her mouth. "Didn't I love you so much?" She met his eyes then but this time he was the one to turn away. He didn't ever want to see that desperation in another's eyes. They were his eyes once.  
  
"Of course you did, but I can't stay." He held her shoulders in one moment, grabbed the black bag, and opened the apartment door.   
  
"It's her, isn't it?" Belladonna called from behind him, her voice tight and pained. "That slut from Louisiana." She turned to face him, unfolding her arms and standing defiant. "Isn't it?"  
  
He held her cool blue gaze for a transitory second before the closing door separated them, shutting with a soft click but not hiding the anguished cries emitting from the other side. Remy shook his head and released the door handle. He turned, adjusted the bag in his hands and marched on... back to his past.  
  
  
Remy stepped slowly onto the train. What the hell am I doing? He paid the fare. Turn around and just move on. He settled into a seat. The wheels began to chug in a tedious heavy motion and a whistle screamed above the passengers, mirroring the frantic cries of Remy's common sense. Turn back, fool! But hus heart remained stubborn. Go back to her. You'd spill your blood to hold her close one last time.   
  
Remy closed his eyes and leaned into his seat. The ride to New Orleans would be a long one.  
  
  
  
  
  
FLASH**  
  
The boy's breath exhaled past his lips in a small gray cloud. He wandered the dark streets of New Orleans, confident in the fact that the stars hung over him like tiny glittering sentinels. He considered the possibility of going home but decided against it; there was still liquor on his breath and his mother would never let him hear the end of it. Instead he meandered a bit past town's common streets and onto a coiling dirt road he'd never noticed before. Half drunk with blurred vision and foggy senses, he followed the road an approximate half-mile as the wind whipped in his face, chapping his long cheeks and slowly sobering him.   
  
He wasn't sure how long he'd been on that particular road, following the moonlight that fell onto the ground before him in a silver path, when he heard music on the traveling wind. He proceeded on and the unmistakable sound of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter could be heard. Rounding a sharp bend, he beheld a fairly sized house standing just by the road which the boy now saw led to precisely nowhere, unless you counted the dead end of shrubs and wild forest flowers. He approached the house, amused and intrigued. Behind him, the wind howled as if to scream at him, "No!" All the more reason the young Cajun climbed the wide porch steps that wrapped around the entire house. The building was painted a subtle white contrasted nicely with black shutters and practically glowed from within as if it were a child's small box with a candle positioned in the center and radiating light throughout the entire house but casting shadows to the wicked outside world.   
  
Jaunty jazz and laughter erupted from inside, accompanied with the sound of fast footsteps, probably of those attempting to challenge the dance floor. The boy smirked to himself and sacrificed curfew to inspect his newfound treasure. He laid a hand on the door latch and opened it with a sharp, swift "click." Immediately, as if on cue, the cheerful brass orchestra's piece ended and a handful of low, sensuous piano notes floated through the air. When the boy entered, people were taking their seats and preparing to stare on in wide-eyed wonder at the breath-taking beauty standing beside the piano.  
  
The house was very open, which told the boy that it wasn't a residence at all, but one of the gambling-whore houses that were so frequent in New Orleans. The first floor occupied the bar, tables, stage for the jazz band and a piano against a wall next to the stairs leading to the balcony above. On the balcony were several rooms lined across the interior perimeter, some of the doors open and the party simply continued inside with whiskey and music, but a closed door led you to make your own assumption.   
  
The boy's eyes rose to the far wall where someone had scrawled the carving "House of the Rising Sun," a name that would soon poison him.   
  
His eyes combed the considerable amount of people sitting at several tables covered in bourbon-colored velvet squares, a bouquet of dried flower petals scattered in the center of every tabletop. The house was all amber and wine.  
  
The crowd's silence was contagious and the boy followed their eyes to catch sight of his twisted destiny standing and singing in her complete magnificence for the very first time. He met her eyes like emerald jewels peeking from tantalizing strands come loose from her bun and framing her diamond-shaped face. While she sang, she held his gaze and the corners of her mouth curved into a bewitching smile. Stars splashed in the boy's eyes and he heard heaven's trumpets blare behind him, oblivious while destiny screamed above, turn back. Turn back.  
  
She wore a long dress the shade of deep rubies trimmed black, tight and square in the bodice but ruffled wide past her waist and flaring into a full bell shape around her legs. Beside her stood a small piano, chipped and painted a dreadful caramel color but the boy poking at the keys revived the instrument into something amazing, his nimble fingers luring beautiful notes from it and filling the entire house with a bittersweet melody.   
  
The boy slipped into a seat at one of the far tables hidden in the back. The angel at the piano had already focused her attention elsewhere, a fact that both captivated and shocked the boy. In all his tedious seventeen years, neither girl nor woman had broke eye contact with him. She was a first- a glorious, radiant first.   
  
Her piece finished and the entire crowd of savage men tamed for even just an instant roared with applause. He too clapped, hoping to hold her gaze again. She stood at the piano, chatting amicably with the fellow playing accompaniment. For a fleeting second, the boy swore he saw her eyes flash to his. His stomach flipped. Finishing his shot of whiskey, he stood and approached her.  
  
Rogue noticed the boy advancing toward her from the corner of her eye and smiled. Scott captured her smile and mirrored the expression, choosing the precise moment to rise under the pretense of fixing himself a drink at the bar. "Be nice," he muttered. Her grin widened and she turned to face the auburn-haired youth.   
  
"Hello dere," he began.  
  
She laughed out loud and then again when his piercing eyes grew. "Mah Gawd, suh. Can you not think of anything moah original than 'hello,' hmm?"   
  
Her sweet green eyes danced and his heart quickened despite his better judgment. "I guess it was a poor beginning. You're right. You deserve better." A cocky grin spread across his face and Rogue noted how undeniably handsome this man was- tall, slender build, scraggly auburn strands that fell across his eyes, and mah Gawd, those eyes. A man should nevah be that pretty; it's wicked temptation.  
  
"What's yoah name, cowboy?"  
  
"Remy," he replied. "And you?"  
  
"Rogue," she said brightly and before he could ask, "Just Rogue."  
  
He nodded. "I see."   
  
**  
  
Scott stood awkwardly at the bar. Of course he wasn't really getting a drink. It was just an expression he liked to use. He shuddered at the thought of him drunk and unshaven, stumbling into class tomorrow morning with a searing headache. Not me, he thought. Not ever.  
  
But nevertheless, he stood at the bar. It had a great view. He could watch her sit at the table, leaning over a piece of tattered or torn scrap paper, pen held lazily between her slender fingers and her chin propped in her delicate hand. Her hair dangled in red waves over her shoulders and almost touching the paper, teasing it as she teased him- subtle and warm and oh so achingly red. Jean was red. He couldn't explain it, but she was the burst of beauty in his life, the poet in his heart, the splash of red in his black and white collage of emotion. His music came straight from her radiance to his heart and through his fingertips.   
  
He was a student by day, attending the resident university twelve miles down the road, small and really nothing at all, but it was an education and Scott swore he would never farm or slave for his food for a living. Besides, after he met her, it was the best university in the world being only an ecstatic heartbeat from where she laid her head on her pillow every night.   
  
He gathered the courage to casually stroll by her table, holding his breath and praying she'd lift her head and speak to him. 'O utter but one word and I shall sleep soundly through this night,' he prayed silently.  
  
"Scott!" She smiled up at him and gestured at the seat beside her. "Please."  
  
He returned her smile. "Of course. What are you doing, Red?"  
  
"Oh nothing, really. Just dabbling to tell you the truth." She nodded at the paper before her. Scott saw a handful of note heads.   
  
"You're writing!"  
  
She blushed, "Hardly."  
  
"You are, you!" He laughed as rose crept into her cheeks. "Alright, alright, maybe not this time, but some day I'm going to get you to write that composition you promised me." He winked.  
  
"I know," she said, and casually tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I promised, Scott Summers."  
  
"Wonderful!"  
  
Jean flashed him a smile. She liked Scott; he respected her and never made her feel below him though she'd had to forgo an education to care for her brother and sister since her father fell ill, forcing her to pull a job as a waitress, "strictly waitress" she assured her father, at The Rising Sun. Scott had just started only months before her, had even taken residence there, so he took it upon himself to somewhat take her in and show her the ropes. When he spoke to her, he stared right into her eyes as if it were the last time he'd ever see her. She was quite fond of his attention.  
  
"How is Mattie? Still have the sniffles?"  
  
Jean rolled her bright blue eyes. "No, thank goodness. She managed to overcome with a little bit of chicken broth and bed rest."  
  
"Oh well that's good." Even mindless chitchat had him hopelessly enthralled. It was pathetic, Scott knew, but he adored her. "And Peter? Well I hope." He was. "And your father?" Scott asked tentatively.  
  
She sighed. "Worse, I'm afraid. I've managed to get Doctor Kelly to take a look at him within the next few days but that's the best I can do for now. I can't get but a minute of his time."  
  
Scott nodded sympathetically. Xavier had been a truly brilliant man and a mighty hard worker, but when his pipe smoking caught up with him so did the tuberculosis. It was an awful shame. Since he'd been bedridden, the heavy responsibility of nine-year-old Peter and seven-year-old Mattie had rested upon Jean's fair shoulders of only sixteen years, their mother having died just after bearing little Mattie.   
  
Scott, a twenty-six year old himself and just finishing up his schooling, swore that when he was out and able to support them, he'd take her entire family in. With her celestial blue eyes and round strawberry mouth, they could take care of each other.   
  
The night was folding to a close and men were beginning to leave the upstairs rooms, buttoning their trousers as they stumbled down the stairs and beautiful women following only moments after. Scott flinched. He saw it every night but it continued to leave him with a heavy heart. And now Jean, his sweet Jean... no, not tonight. Don't think about it tonight.  
  
Finally, Emma took a headcount of her girls and when everyone was accounted for, told Jean and the other non-residential workers they could head on home.  
  
Scott walked Jean to the door. "Are you sure you want to walk alone? I can go if you'd like."   
  
"No, no, don't be silly. It's only two miles." The autumn night was brisk and her creamy limbs prickled under the chill. Scott immediately shed his long coat and placed it over her small frame, his fingers sinking into her downy flesh. Jean inhaled deeply, the cold air unusually comfortable in her throat. "God, aren't the stars beautiful?" She asked. Scott tipped his head and beheld them.  
  
"Yes," he answered absently. They smiled shyly at each other and she turned on her way. Scott didn't watch her go for fear he would race after and scoop her in his arms, showering her face with all the clumsy kisses a wanton adolescent like himself could muster. Instead, he turned back into the House of the Rising Sun and climbed the stairs to his own room. 


	2. House 2

Rogue stepped lightly down the wide stairway, leaning heavily on the banister from both fatigue and slight soreness.   
  
She stumbled to the bar and plopped onto a stool. The typically spirited southerner was glazed with tire and thoughts of the night's pay. She swallowed a tall glass of water and swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand.  
  
Emma popped from behind the bar and smiled. "Hey kitten. Why so glum?"  
  
Rogue shook her head. "Just... tired, Ah guess."  
  
"Aw, well cheer up, it's time to call it a night."  
  
"Thank Gawd."  
  
"You can go tell Red over there she can head on home. Hey and go ahead and tell Scott he can hit the sack, would ya'?"   
  
Rogue scoffed. "Where've you been, girl? Don't you know Scott don't turn in until that lil girl has flat-out refused his offah to walk her home? Hell, it's getting to be as predictable as the sunrise, sugah."  
  
Emma paused from counting bills, thumb pressed against her small pink tongue. She perked a brow and regarded the young redhead. "Oh really? No, I didn't know that." She tapped the money against the bar thoughtfully. "You know, maybe we could use her, what do ya' think?"   
  
"Her? She's a lil young..."  
  
Emma shot Rogue an incredulous look. "You kidding me? Sixteen, I think. I could work her."  
  
Rogue stared at the young girl wiping down tables, scraggly strands having escaped her pins and tumbling between her lively eyes- an earnest, hardworking girl, no doubt complete with giant aspirations complemented perfectly with titanic ambition.   
  
Rogue noted how they were really several years apart. Worlds apart, even.  
  
"Oh by the way," Emma stopped at the bottom of the stairs and spun to regard Rogue, elbow propped on the banister. "Someone was in here earlier, asked about you."  
  
"Really?" Rogue forced the note of hope from her voice. "Who?"  
  
Emma shrugged small shoulders. "Some kid, a sexy fellow for sure. Had these real wicked eyes," Emma waved a hand across her face for emphasis. "Sinful as the devil himself, those eyes, I tell ya'."  
  
Rogue couldn't suppress the hint of a delighted smile curling at her full lips. Emma noticed this and groaned.  
  
"God honey, no. No, no, no." She reached Rogue and clasped the younger woman's hands in her own. "The last thing I need is you fallin' head over heels for some dark handsome desperado, you hear? God, just steer clear of anyone that crazy heart of yours second glances, and I am serious as the plague." She started back up the stairs, extinguishing oil lamps and mumbling, "I swear I'll wake up one day to find my best girl whisked away by some New Orleans heart thief that was easy on those big green eyes of yours."  
  
Emma disappeared into her room and soon the downstairs was dark and empty. Rogue sat at the bar, staring out at the sea of small round tables and the piano at the head of the room. She idly wondered how her good friend Scott was faring in the love department. The thought cracked a grin across her beautiful, soft features.  
  
  
**  
  
"Can I walk you home?"  
  
"Oh it's really not far. You don't have-"  
  
"Actually, there's something I sort of wished to speak with you about, if that's okay," he added a bit timidly.  
  
Jean considered the offer. She really did like Scott and if he insisted...  
  
"Alright," she nodded and the pair headed off, meandering in the basic direction of her home.  
  
"So," he knifed through the quiet, "written me anything yet?" He turned to her and smiled, a simple, boyish grin that she decided suited him splendidly.  
  
"Oh Scott, you know I can't write music."  
  
"No, I've seen you. Why just the other night-"  
  
"What you've seen are the furtive scribbles of a girl with a head full of dreams and little more, including talent. "  
  
He chuckled. "All of the best composers were hopeless romantics, Red. Write me something and I'll play it for you whenever, just say the word."  
  
Jean turned to him curiously, continuing their slow steps, feet skidding the occasional small rock across the long dirt road. "Is this why you insisted on escorting me home, to ask me to compose your song?"  
  
"Don't enjoy my company?"  
  
"Oh no, not at all! I mean I enjoy it very much, yes, but I can't bear the thought of dragging you all the way out here. I can take care of myself, really."   
  
He shook his head and faced forward, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "Is that really what you think- that I offer to walk you home every night because I fear for you safety?" There was amusement laced in his words. "Goodness Jean, I know naïve but you..."  
  
She swatted his arm. "Don't make fun! I can't help it, honest!"  
  
A small frown played at Scott's handsome face. She was innocent and blissfully clueless now, but if she continued to work at The Rising Sun how much longer would that ignorant purity last? Which brought him to his real reason for refusing a polite 'no' that evening.  
  
"Jean?"  
  
"Hmm." She was gazing at the stars but Scott's considerable pause prompted her to face him.  
  
"Tonight, when I was playing, I saw someone- a man- approach you. Who was he?"  
  
"Oh I don't know." She stared at the cloud of dust at her feet.  
  
"Well what did he want? Did he..."   
  
"Oh what does it matter what he wanted?" A flush crept across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "That was hours ago and I'm here with you now." They climbed three narrow steps and lingered on her small porch. She captured one of Scott's hands in her two lesser ones and brought it to her neck, her fingers toying with the fine hairs of his knuckles. "I wish you wouldn't worry about me so, Scott darling," she said softly, her voice a cool shallow pool of spring water. Scott lived for these sporadic stolen moments when she suddenly decides to caress his cheek with the back of her smooth hand or haul him onto The Rising Sun floor for a close slow dance.   
  
"I do worry about you, Jeannie. Men are evil, except for me and your father of course."  
  
Mattie burst from the front door and circled the young couple, her older brother Pete close in tow.   
  
"Help me, Jean! He's going to kidnap me and ship me off to pirates!"  
  
The young boy chased his fair-haired sister with outstretched arms. Jean scooped Mattie into her arms, calling after Peter to "Stop this instant, mister!"  
  
Scott caught the boy and the older pair shooed the children back through the front door.  
  
Jean leaned against the porch swing when all was quiet again and laughed through a tired sigh. "Mercy me!"  
  
"Sometimes I forget you're only sixteen, Jean Grey."  
  
"Sometimes I forget you're twenty-five, Scott Summers."  
  
"Not yet," he reminded her. "Not for-"  
  
"Three more days, I know." She finished for him, bestowing him with a spectacular smile he found irresistible, in a word.   
  
Scott bowed his head. "I don't."  
  
"Don't what?"   
  
"Forget, you know, that I'm twenty-four... almost twenty-five." He said softly. She tilted her head and regarded him with big, questing eyes. She didn't ask questions, simply gave him a quiet 'good-night' and slipped through her front door.  
  
As Scott descended the stairs he heard the door reopen and turned when she called, "Scott, wait!"   
  
Her footsteps padded across her porch and she slipped easily into his arms, gracing him with a brief, chaste kiss on his mouth before whispering, "Thank you for walking me home. Good night."  
  
Before he could calculate the feel of her warm body under his hands or her strawberry mouth on his, she escaped his grasp and closed the white, paint-chipped door behind her.  
  
Scott pivoted and began his journey home, a slight spring in his step.  
  
  
**  
  
"Remy? Well are you eatin' or not, boy, it's due to get cold."  
  
He stepped from his room and settled at the table in a chair beside the woman with peanut-butter colored hair and dull, charcoal eyes that one could easily imagine shining like the sea at a previous point in her long but scarce thirty-five years.   
  
"So much, mama?" Remy straddled the small wooden chair and commenced shoveling soup and bread into his ravenous mouth.  
  
"Your fat'er ain't comin' home 'til late so I gave you his. Workin' late," she added quietly.  
  
Remy paused and nodded over his bowl, piece of only slightly stale bread between his fingers. Working late. He scoffed bitterly. Bastard was out spending their meager earnings in a gambling house; he fooled no one.  
  
The seventeen-year-olds heart wrenched at the sight of his mother's eyes reflect lonely contempt when she recited the household's common lie. Working late. Working late.  
  
"Hey mama, I'll get dis. Go. Off to bed wit' you, now." He shooed her from over the sink, hands permanently soaked and prune-like from sitting water.  
  
Her eyes gleamed with threatening tears as she wordlessly nodded her acceptance and retired to her room. "Don't stay out too late, sweetheart."  
  
Remy shook his head and dipped his large hands into the grimy, sickly cool water.  
  
When the few dishes and utensils were stacked away, Remy threw on his warm black coat- another of his mother's tedious creations- and exited the small home.  
  
Approximately twenty minutes later, he stood before a most promising challenge: a twenty-foot wall. What awaited him at the top? A small window with white panel- not a particularly monumental oddity but it was what this window led to that had the incorrigible teen's determination at an impressive high.  
  
He clawed up a nearby tree that took him 3/4 of his way. His gambit was executed with a swift launch off the oak and onto the ledge, soaring him a good four feet. He dangled from her window, gripping with white knuckles while his swinging legs built enough momentum to hoist and latch onto the ledge. He scrambled to a sitting position, his back to her room while he panted off the small exhilaration. He nearly cried out when the shudders flew open, fortunately for him the sort that opened in- not out.  
  
Rogue shrieked and batted at his body. He flung himself at her and clamped a strong hand across her mouth.  
  
"Shh! 'S me chere!" He hissed.  
  
Her green eyes grew wide over his hand. When he hesitated in removing it, she slipped her tongue past her lips and darted it at his fingers. He brought his hand back and they shared a mischievous grin.  
  
"What do you think yoah doin' heuh? If Emma found you..."  
  
He shrugged with lithe shoulders. "Let her!" His voice raised a pitch. "I fly on wings of perfect love." He encircled her small waist with strong arms to which she promptly responded by shoving him. The back of his knees bent on contact with the edge of her bed and he plopped onto it with an unceremonious thud accompanied by a chorus of shrieking springs.  
  
"Easy cowboy," she warned, sauntering to her vanity and sitting with a liquid grace he knew she knew had his eyes hanging onto every movement. He watched her pull jeweled combs from her russet tangles that fell across the small of her back, auburn cables tumbling against the cream-pallid of her cheek. "So why'd you come back?"  
  
"You've obviously never met someone wit' green eyes like yours."  
  
A charming smile played at her shapely lips. "They are green," she repeated and caught his gaze in her mirror. "Alraght, points for creativity."  
  
"I'm not trying to win anyt'ing."  
  
"Good, 'cause you're not."  
  
"Tell me now you don't find me attractive." Silence. "T'ought so."  
  
She turned on her plush forest-green stool. "You cocky bastard!"  
  
"Not cocky, just confident."  
  
Flustered, she shot, "Get out of here!"  
  
He stood and headed for the window. "I'll see you tomorrow night."  
  
"Wait," she cried. "How will you get down?" She murmured.  
  
He peered down two stories. "Jump, I guess."  
  
"You'll break a leg!"  
  
He flashed an impish grin and approached where she sat still in the low stool at her vanity. "And wouldn't you just feel terrible?"  
  
She snorted and turned to face the mirror once again, he to her back. "Stay, go, Ah don't care," she breathed, not daring to lose herself in those dark abysses he called eyes, as taunting and enticing as a red sky or one of Scott's grandest pieces.  
  
He dipped his head to press sensual kisses on her lily neck. One hand reached to bury itself in his auburn tangles while the other groped at the lace doily on her vanity, knocking over expensive bottles of Parisian perfumes in her upswept abandon.   
  
She gently separated him from her neck and held his gaze for an instant before their mouths met for the first kiss that sent her heart thrashing against her chest and hands groping across his perfect body.  
  
Remy gathered her in his arms and the couple slow danced to her bed, his mouth unwilling to part with her own rosebud-red lips. Remy was young but he had had several midnight affairs. The earnest desire to give the woman in his arms a night she could possess until the end of time swallowed him. A transition occurred in the boy's life- a life laced with self-indulgence; but it was no longer about him but... someone else. Her.  
  
He embraced the change happily.  
  
  
The next morning was neither awkward nor silent. The two young lovers lied awake in her bed, she propped up with the sheet tucked under her arms and a cigarette dangling between her fingertips, he lying beside her on his front, head sitting in one hand while the other stroked her bare thigh. They reveled in the afterglow of their impassioned sex first, then slow and clement lovemaking followed by a morning sitting of sweet caresses and heated pawing. Now they chatted amicably about whatever so happened to drift across their half-conscious, ardor-fogged minds.   
  
"Hey, how old are you, chere?" Remy mumbled against the side of her knee while his hand ventured up her leg and to her hip.  
  
She extinguished her smoke. "I told yah, swamp rat, twenty-four."  
  
He ceased his ministrations and looked up at her face. "Green Eyes, you can swear up and down until you're blue to Emma, Scott, the johns you work for, or even that lil redhead Scott's lovesick over, but I can spot those young, pretty features no matter how much make-up you pile on 'em to keep your job. Please don't insult me by makin' me ask again."  
  
Rogue sighed and flopped down in her bed. There was lingering silence as she stared at him by her side before hopping up again and straddling his hips. She leaned close to his face. "Yoah stubborn as all hell! What does it mattah?"  
  
"I wanna know."  
  
She blew an errant strand of autumn-gold from her eyes and peered down at him. "Seventeen, like you. Happy?"  
  
He sat up, her legs on either side of him and her arms behind his neck. "When did you start working?"  
  
"When Ah was fifteen. I never thought Emma would hire me at that age but she told me just yesterday she's thinkin' about offering Jeannie a job and she's only sixteen!"  
  
Remy's brows furrowed. "Jeannie...?"  
  
"The lil redheaded gal that Scott..."  
  
"Oh, oh, okay. I gotcha. Now," he fingered Rogue's streak of snow white that parted her long dark locks. "About dis..."  
  
  
**  
  
Scott watched from where he piled his sheet music. Sebastian approached Jean innocently enough. Want a drink? No thanks; I don't drink usually. Have you ever? Once, at my father's retirement party. Scott bit down a growl when filthy rich Sebastian- even without the rich he'd still be just filthy- tipped his head back to laugh out loud at her comment as if she'd just said the wittiest thing ever. How is your father by the way? Not very well, I'm afraid. I understand your family is struggling with some bills- doctor's and what not? (A pretty blush Sebastian didn't deserve) Yes that's right. Well I am a doctor, child. Oh yes, I know. Pause. Let's go outside for fresh air, what do you think? All right.   
  
His hand pressed at the small of her back while he led her out the front doors away from the music, glasses toasting, and people, people, people. Scott lingered behind unnoticed and a good deal away from them. Sebastian's voice polluted the crisp night air and her very presence.  
  
"I don't mean to brag but did you know I'm a fairly wealthy man myself?"   
  
"Of course you are; everyone in town... looks up to you, I guess you could say."   
  
"Yes, I suppose you could say that. On numerous occasions people approach me for money and more often than not I prefer to help them out in exchange for certain... services. This and that, really: tailoring, gambling debts forgotten, etcetera."  
  
Scott clenched his fists. He knew what 'etcetera' consisted of and prayed to God that Jean knew, too.  
  
The look in her heavy blue eyes told him that she did indeed know what it meant, but was considering the offer. Scott contemplated conveniently 'accidentally' dropping an on-hand mug and needing Jean's assistance in picking up the shards of shattered glass but it was fate who ended up helping him just this once. A carriage pulled up and a small man with thick-rimmed glasses informed Dr. Sebastian Shaw he was needed immediately; "Child birth, doctor!"  
  
Sebastian nodded his assent and turned to Jean who stood awkwardly listening. "I hope your father feels better, Jean." Without warning, he wrapped large arms around her small frame and pressed her close against his hulking body, his mouth millimeters from her ear. "Perhaps we'll be able to save him, girl. Together."  
  
Bile rose in Scott's throat as the man pawed and prodded at his Jean. 'No, not your Jean. No one's Jean. Not even yours Doctor Shaw.'  
  
Jean laughed off the uncomfortable moment and gently nudged him away. "Good luck with the delivery, doctor." He tipped his hat and climbed into the carriage with more than little effort.  
  
When the carriage had disappeared down the road, Jean turned and moved to reenter The Rising Sun when she saw the silhouette of a man she knew well. "Scott! How long... I mean shouldn't you be inside closing up?"  
  
"I finished early so that maybe I could wal... Oh, never mind."   
  
Her shoulders slumped and she clasped hands in front of her, fumbling with her own fingers. "Please don't be angry, Scott."  
  
"We're you going to leave with him?"   
  
"..."  
  
He grabbed her hands and brought her close. "Jean, tell me! We're you?"  
  
"Scott, please try to understand!" She brought her hands to his face so he met her eyes directly. "My father... he's sick and we don't have the money..." her voice trailed off but Scott needed to hear no more.  
  
He neared her until their faces were inches apart, her hands still cradling his head. "I wish we were millionaires. God, only happiness. I could take care of you the way you deserve to be treated- your whole family! But please, please Jeannie, not someone like him. Not Sebastian Shaw, not ever." Scott shuddered at the thought of a soiled bastard like Shaw smearing his girl's purity- plowing through her like a madman with short clumsy thrusts then throwing her a few crumpled bills before tossing her aside.   
  
And what could you give her, huh? You yourself have no money, barely enough to pull yourself through college and even that's all loans and scraping by. That's why you work at The Rising Sun, but it's not the only reason.  
  
But good God, Scott, she's so young- too, too young. Would you yourself ruin her? Scott shook his head. Not ever. "I would never hurt you."  
  
Jean bit back tears for Scott, this boy that tried and tried and wouldn't take no for an answer, the boy that wished he could be rich for her sake, the boy that looked at her like she was the last thing he'd ever want to see in life. She lunged at him on the dark porch, leaping into his arms and her mouth roaming blindly until it pressed firmly against his lips and her limbs wrapped around his body.  
  
He held her close, his abstract dreams turning tangible in the black, crisp autumn night. Coherent thoughts all lost to him now, he buried his hands in her waves of glossy red and returned the kiss with desperate fervor. He'd waited too long, watched her for too many nights moving slowly and purposefully until he thought he should go mad.   
  
Jean's blood rushed through her in a rampant wave flooding her veins. She tore from him with an abrupt step back and gazed into his eyes for a lingering second. His face was confused and etched with worry or fear he'd done something to drive her from him during their brief display of love and lust with entangled limbs and maladroit kisses.   
  
Tugging at his hand, she edged back into The Rising Sun. The inside was dimly lit by the occasional oil lamp but mostly as pitch dark as the brisk outside had been. The couple stumbled up the stairs, giggling softly and groping the railing for security in their next step. Knowing the upstairs much better than she, Scott led Jean down the long corridor and to his bedroom door. They stepped in noiselessly and he shut it with an inaudible click behind him.   
  
He turned back to see her standing in his room's center, pale arms bare to the silver moonlight and hair resting on her shoulders and across her back like one silky sheet of crimson glass.   
  
He found words with a parched mouth and gaping jaw. "Are you... I mean are you sure? You don't-" he blushed. "I mean you don't have to."  
  
Jean's hands glided to her shoulders, her fingers tugging on the edge of her simple pastel dress and the white frock under it until they grazed down her velveteen arms and the dress fell to her waist. She slid it past her hips and stepped from the cloth puddle, across the six steps separating them and into Scott's arms. Her heart beat furiously in her chest, screaming at her that this was it, he was the one. She knew it mind body and soul and she'd dedicate this night to proving to Scott Summers that she loved him.  
  
Her bare body felt warm and downy under his hands. The pair stood staring at each other until Scott swallowed apprehension and leaned in to capture her mouth, sweet and sublime against his own. Scarlet lips played on his as he laid her across the length of his bed and bared his soul to the young redhead through the night.  
  
  
By the time the sun peeked over the horizon nearly eight hours passed, all trepidation and fumbling uneasiness between each other had melted into an understanding and priceless afterglow.   
  
Scott watched her sleep soundly beside him, the steady rise and fall of her chest with each deep breath. Unconsciously, his own breathing synchronized with hers as he observed, noting every line and curve of her face and body. He wanted to do something terribly romantic like weep at her beauty, but he could only bring himself to watch and watch, swallow her whole with his eyes as if he'd never again see her in this shroud of bliss they created. 'I love you,' he mouthed so as not to wake her but hoped maybe somewhere in the dream world she heard it, and responded likewise.  
  
Scott was secure. Something amazing happened between them the night before- the kind of amazing that are only told in novels or written in songs. A nameless tune was already shaping. Jean Grey gave Scott a very important part of her life between the slow sunset and flourishing dawn, he'd been her first lover, and no matter where she went, far or away from him, in or out of his life, he'd always harbor that part of her in him.  
  
  
  
  
A/N: Since this song inspired this short little fic that will probably only consist of a few more chapters, I will post the lyrics on every chapter, just because I can and not one chapter do I write that I'm not listening to my own copy;) And it's The Animals, folks...  
  
  
There is a house in New Orleans  
They call The Rising Sun  
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy  
And God, I know, I'm one  
  
My mother was a tailor,  
She sewed my new blue jeans  
My father was a gambling man  
Down in New Orleans  
  
Now the only thing a gambler needs  
Is a suitcase and a trunk  
And the only time that he's satisfied   
Is when he's on a drug  
  
Oh mothers, tell your children  
Not to do what I have done  
Spend your life in sin and misery  
In the House of The Rising Sun  
  
Well I got one foot on the platform  
The other foot on the train  
I'm going back to New Orleans  
To wear that ball and chain  
  
  
There is a house in New Orleans  
They call The Rising Sun  
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy  
And God, I know, I'm one 


	3. God, I know, I'm One

"I got one foot on the platform  
The other foot on the train,  
I'm going back to New Orleans  
To wear that ball and chain."  
--The Animals  
  
  
  
"Alright, Scotty! Show that piano who's boss!"   
  
Remy rose his glass to the young musician pounding joyous notes out of the stringed instrument. His fingers pranced across the dirty ivory keys, his shoulders jerking with every slam and his face bright with ecstasy. This was happiness, he decided. Jean beside him on the bench, delighted with his jaunty tune, and two good friends behind him, dancing and laughing their heads off like children! He grinned.  
  
"Are you two tired yet, or what?" Scott gasped, sitting back from his piano and swiping a hand over his perspiring brow. His collar was loosened and his shirt slightly damp against his chest. Beside him, Jean's hair was twisted up into a sagging bun, wisps sticking to her cheeks and neck from the heat. Her eyes were a radiant blue flashing him coy, knowing looks between pieces, making his heart thrash everywhere and his pulse race in his veins. Her face tired from the night and warm from the heat, she looked lovely.  
  
Remy plopped unceremoniously into a chair. "I suppose you're right. It's getting late." He caught Rogue's waist and guided her until she sat on his knee. "I should be goin' chere." She buried her face in his neck.   
  
"Already?"  
  
Scott eyed Jean. "Perhaps we should let them alone." She colored slightly and nodded her consent, accepting his outstretched arm to escort her to the front of The House.   
  
Remy stroked Rogue's side, his head resting atop her own. "I'll be back first t'ing tomorrow. I've gotta see my mot'er tonight."  
  
Rogue sensed a twinge of something she couldn't place in his voice and raised her head to regard him with concern. "What do ya' mean, Remy?"  
  
His features didn't slip into an easy grin. Instead, he sat and thought for a second's pause. "I'm not sure, Green Eyes. Just somet'ing ain't right about the way I feel tonight. Somet'ing in my belly tells me to make it home." Rogue's brows were etched and she stared deeply into his eyes. He shrugged quickly. "Goin' crazy, maybe, no?" He chuckled lightly and nudged her slim body off his leg.   
  
Once standing, they embraced again, she kissing him full on his mouth with sincere passion. "Come back tomorrow?"  
  
"Even if de world collapsed tonight."  
  
She grinned and Remy went weak. "Promise?"  
  
He swept her up in one swift gesture. "Would I lie to you?" Before she could respond, he captured her chin in his right hand. "Don't even say whatever wicked poison you've got on dat tongue."  
  
She settled for another kiss and he headed home.  
  
  
**  
  
Remy's step was light on his journey home. Life was indisputably better. He tipped his head to the stars and stopped in his tracks, gazing at the heavenly bodies. The anxious knot stirred in his stomach. "Don't ruin dis," he muttered to the sky. "Please."  
  
He entered his small, humble home and immediately stiffened. He smelt the liquor, heard the screaming, felt the fear.   
  
He crossed his house in three steps and swung open the door to his parent's room. His father, ugly and hulking like a drunken beast, had cornered his mother. Her left eye already adorned a black and purple bruise and sopping tears swam down her thin, tired cheeks.   
  
"Remy!" Jean-Luc roared, spinning unsteadily to face his only child. "C'mere boy." He grabbed his son by the back of the neck and shoved him until he faced his weak, sobbing mother.  
  
"Jean-Luc, leave him alone! He's just a boy, you bastard!" She screamed at her husband.  
  
Jean-Luc's eyes flashed a furious black and he backhanded his wife into the wall on which she leaned.  
  
Remy snapped. Too many times, his head screamed. Too many, too many. "Leave her alone!" He shouted over his father, his eyes red and blazing. "Don't you touch her, not ever again! Stay at the whorehouses where you belong! Just go and stay away from here!"  
  
Jean-Luc stalked toward Remy, his hand pulled back and ready to strike like a serpent. Remy dodged his father's clumsy, drunk advances nimbly. Panicked, the seventeen-year-old ran from the room and into the kitchen. Jean-Luc followed, destroying anything hindering his advances.   
  
"Get back here, boy! I ain't finished with you. Who the hell do you think you are, ungrateful prick!"  
  
He closed the space between him and his son. Remy backed into a counter.   
  
Jean-Luc snatched his son by the shirt and brought his face until it was inches from his own. "I'll kill you. You ain't nothin'!"  
  
"You're drunk," Remy spat through clenched teeth. "You're always drunk."  
  
His father clamped his big hands around Remy's throat. Oh God, Oh God, help me Christ our Savior Lord. Remy fumbled behind him and snatched the first thing his hand found.  
  
Jean-Luc continued applying hard pressure against his son's neck, intent on ending his "miserable, pathetic, useless," life. "Miserable, pathetic, useless. That's all you are. That's all your ever be. You're like me, boy, face it. Never be great. Never be anything."  
  
Remy couldn't breathe. Weakly, he raised his hand and stuck the kitchen knife's blade into his father's shoulder. Jean-Luc bellowed in pain but only squeezed harder against Remy's neck until he thought his bones might break. Remy stabbed him again, and again, and again until glazed, lifeless eyes stared up at him from his own bloody pool.   
  
"Remy!" His mother screeched, rushing to her deceased husband's body, dipping her hand in his cool, sick blood. Remy looked down and saw his own hands to be drenched in the same sticky liquid.  
  
"Oh God," he choked.   
  
Remy's mother met her son's eyes. "Go," she whispered. "Go, Remy. The sheriff..." Her wild eyes swallowed the sight of her dead husband once more. "Go," she repeated.  
  
Remy nodded fiercely, dumbly, and stumbled to the door. "Remy!" She called behind him. He turned to stare into her deep, long-suffering eyes. She hugged him hard and kissed his brow. "May God protect you."   
  
  
**  
  
"It's late," Scott said, his tone a low rumble between the soft, deep notes he plucked from the piano. Jean, settled again beside him, nodded with eyes closed, enwrapped in his slow steady tune.   
  
"Mmhmm," she hummed.   
  
"Don't want to start heading home?" He inquired, his hand still dabbing the keys, the melody still wafting through the closed, dark house. They were low enough not to wake those upstairs, or interrupt them...  
  
Jean opened her eyes and stared at Scott's profile. He divided his attention between her and the music. He regarded her questioningly. "What is it?"  
  
Jean sighed. "Oh Scott, I..." She began. Scott, unsure of what else to do, continued playing and listened to a confession he knew was coming. "Scott, Sebastian Shaw visited our home early this morning." She waited for a response that was not forthcoming from his stony visage so she continued, the taunting melody in her ears. "He told me that... that he would save my father, or at least do what he can." Those soulful notes played on. "He said he'd do it for free if..." her voice grew weak and trailed off.   
  
The abrupt halt in the music hung the moment on thick air. Scott turned fully and faced her, his words sharp. "Nothing's free, Red."  
  
She held his gaze for a long time. He watched her lower lip tremble and her wide eyes glimmer with swelling moisture. He knew the answer before he asked the question.  
  
"Are you going to do it?"  
  
"I don't see any other way! I don't want my father to die, Scott."   
  
Scott looked at her, young and beautiful and fresh as the morning dew. Lost to him forever. His face was pained and his eyes longing. "Jean," he began. "If you do this, I can't watch it. I can't watch it happen. If you do it, I won't stay."   
  
She looked hurt at first. "I thought... you loved me," she croaked, confused and agonizingly naïve, Scott thought.   
  
"I do love you, Jean Grey. Too much." She swiped at tears in the corners of her eyes and Scott's heart twisted. He snatched her hands as he was fond of doing and held them against him. "Listen. If you come with me, I can't promise you anything but my own real love."  
  
Jean pondered it momentarily but shook her head. "I can't, Scott. I have a family here. I can't leave them, not now."  
  
He waited for her answer to change, but when it did not, he shook his head solemnly and rose from his bench. He dipped down to kiss her mouth- all raspberries and round. "I'll come back for you," he whispered against her. It sounded ridiculous, he knew, but he'd return to this woman or die trying.  
  
She nodded but her words failed her, except only two.  
  
"Love you."  
  
  
  
  
*******FLASH******  
  
Remy remembered The City Of New Orleans from six years ago- not New Orleans, where he grew up as a boy, sinned as a boy, loved as a boy, but the train named "City of New Orleans" on which he sat a passenger right now and sat a passenger all those years ago when he ran...  
  
Remy focused on the five cards fanned in his hands. Penny a point... no one kept score.   
  
He squinted as the black and red blurred together. Diamonds, clubs, spades, hearts. He used to be so damned good at this, but that was before he let New York and life with Belladonna swallow him whole. He shook his head. No, that was the Remy he was trying to leave behind. That was the Remy that stayed chained beside a wife he did not love for years. But now, with the southern pasture and old graveyards whizzing by him, he was the Remy he used to be- young, cocky, dangerous, a lover.   
  
"You biddin' or what, boy?" The man with gray hair passed him the bottle in a paper bag. Remy accepted it and swigged before shoving his scattered pile into the center of the table.  
  
"Why not?" He smirked as their eyes became huge. Remy passed the liquor on as a waitress set down his own glass of wine in front of him. He smiled up at her, stopping suddenly when he saw her eyes. They were green. An incredible, striking green just like a woman he knew once.   
  
She flashed him a friendly smile and stood awkwardly beside him as he stared. A few more swallows from the brown bag and the woman was perched on his knee, laughing and whispering with him.   
  
When the conductor announced to the group that it was three a.m., Remy stood and announced his departure. He moved to leave but turned as if on second thought to the green-eyed girl. "You comin'?" He inquired. She hopped form her seat soundlessly and walked with him to his room.  
  
He shut the door behind her and turned to gaze again. Dose eyes, My God.   
  
They were bright and thoughtful and achingly green- green like he'd dreamed about for so long now.   
  
She slipped into his arms and silently pressed her mouth against his. He responded fervently, slipping his tongue past the unknown girl's lips and burying his hands in her long, dark hair. She fumbled with his trouser button, pressing all the more eagerly against his sculpted body.  
  
"No," he gasped, wrenching from her. "I'm sorry. I can't do dis. It's not right."   
  
The girl paused, staring at him quizzically before leaping back in his arms and kissing him once more. He pulled her clinging form. "I don't mind, honest!" She cried, trying to get back at him. He shook his head.  
  
"You will in de morning."   
  
She looked at first as though she were going to protest again, but simply nodded and left the room.  
  
  
  
The afternoon was a shower of blinding yellow and white flooding his cramped room as the sluggish chug-chug-chug of the train's wheels carried on. Hours later, the train slowed and finally halted as the conductor screeched an all-call.  
  
Small black bag in hand, Remy stepped slowly from the train as the sun slowly hid behind the horizon, taking in the city of sin and poetry- his city. His fine tailored trousers and simple white button-up was enough to make him stand out, a shining New Yorker amongst the hard-working class. He unconsciously fumbled with his sleeve as the train- his escape- pulled away behind him in a cloud of brown dust.  
  
Remy inhaled deeply, bracing himself for this place once more. He scanned his surroundings. The Lola Saloon still stood, as did the tiny white chapel at the edge of town. Down that coiling road to the left, about a half-a-mile, was where his heart had been all these years. The House of the Rising Sun.   
  
But it was Sunday. The Sun didn't open until Monday. With his mother now deceased (rest her soul, Sweet Mary), Remy had to find other means of lodging. He slung his bag over his shoulder and marched to the Stillwater Hotel he vaguely recalled.  
  
The inside was lavish and bathed in a brilliant golden glow from the dim oil lamps. Tourists and others bustled about inside, dressed in their best, chatting excitably with one another and fanning themselves of the heat.  
  
Remy rang the counter bell for service. A small man with round spectacles greeted him. "What can I do for you, son?"  
  
"I need a room."  
  
"Well," he huffed, "you've definitely come to the right place." He chuckled as if he'd said something particularly witty and Remy smiled politely. "Let's see, what do we got here?" As the man searched his big gray book for an available room and key, Remy's eyes flicked over the lobby as if he expected her to jump out at any moment.  
  
"Ah yes, here we go. Room 17, my boy." He handed Remy a key and the Cajun took it, smiling his thanks and trotting up the stairs.  
  
His room was small, but pleasant with a desk and large, open window. Not bothering to strip, he plopped onto the decent-sized bed and kicked off his shoes, rubbing his eyes in the process. Could he face her tomorrow? Why was he even *doing* this? One memory of her, the dawn's glow crowning her head and her hair in tumbling strands down her back, and he knew all the answers.  
  
That night, Remy dreamed a dream he often had...  
  
  
  
****FLASH*****  
  
Rogue settled into her large bed, her open window sending the unseasonably warm autumn breeze against her face. Her thoughts ran away with her in bed, and they were the only things she had left that belonged to her and no one else. It was for this reason that she spent the majority of her earnings on her bed outfit: large mattress, silk sheets, velveteen comforters and big, downy pillows. The girls teased her at first, insisting she did it to boost customers and such, but Rogue killed that rumor immediately.  
  
A rustle at her window made her heart leap for only an instant until she decided almost immediately that it had to be Remy. Chastising her foolishness, she rose from bed and saw him hanging on her ledge.   
  
"Oh Lawd," she smiled down at him.   
  
"Just shut your pretty mout' and gimme a hand, will ya'?"   
  
Her grin widened and she reached down to hoist him up.   
  
"There ya' go. Bettah or what?" Her smile faded when she saw the ink-black of his eyes turn a stormy midnight. "Remy? What's wrong?" She asked, inching closer. He held her steady gaze, his face expressionless and numb. It wasn't until then that she noticed the red tint of his long, beautiful hands. "Oh my Gawd," she gasped. "What...? What the hell happened?"  
  
His shoulders deflated and he hung his head. "I killed him," he croaked. "My fat'er; I killed my fat'er." His head shot up and his wild eyes pinned hers. "But it was an accident, chere. You gotta believe me. It was an accident! He was hurting my mot'er. He wouldn't let her alone, and I had to do it! I had to do somet'ing!"  
  
Rogue stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his body. "Shhh, it's alraght, Remy," she soothed, stroking his hair. "It'll be okay. It'll be okay."  
  
They held each other for a long time, rocking to each other's pace. That's when Remy decided beyond a doubt that he would die in her arms.  
  
He pulled her away to stare her deep in the eyes. His pools of ebony and garnet bore into her. "Rogue," he whispered. "Rogue I have to run. I can't stay. He knew de sheriff, Rogue, my fat'er knew him." She shook her head and tears collected in her eyes but she remained silent. "Run wit' me, Rogue. We'll leave toget'er. Come wit' me."  
  
Rogue only kissed his mouth. "Oh Remy," she cried quietly, stroking his cheeks and kissing him breathlessly. "Remy, Remy," was all she said. She coaxed him down into her bed and made love to him, slow and sweet, branding herself into Remy's heart for life.  
  
  
The next morning, Remy LeBeau tasted bitter heartbreak for the first time in his young life.   
  
He woke to the sound of joyful birds and the busy city streets. He shifted in the bed and draped an arm across Rogue. Instead of her warm, soft body his arm rested on the cool, expensive sheets. His eyes flew open.  
  
She was gone. Remy shot from the bed and frantically tugged on his trousers, stumbling toward the door while his eyes continued to search the room. It was useless. She was gone. On her vanity, he saw a primly folded note with his name scrawled fluidly on the front. He snatched it and ripped it open.   
  
Dearest Remy,  
I belong here. Run and don't ever look back.   
Love,  
~Rogue  
  
Remy stuffed it in his pocket as he bound down the stairs three at a time. In the distance, his train screamed for him to hurry. "The City of New Orleans" parted in two minutes.  
  
Remy skidded to the floor and nearly collided with a stunned, infuriated Emma. "What the he-!" She screeched. "You! The sheriff is looking for you, boy! Get outta my bar." He moved past her and found Jean at the piano. There were tears in her eyes, but Remy had no time to coddle the young girl.  
  
"Red! Red, have you seen Rogue? Where is she?!" He panted.   
  
Jean sputtered dumbly. "Wha-? I... I don't know, Remy. I haven't seen her but wait I'll go fin- Wait! Where are you going?"  
  
He had already disappeared through the doors by the time she'd finished. A tall, lanky man Remy knew to be Sheriff Cole awaited him outside. "Remy! There you are, son. Come here, I want to have a word with you." Remy noticed the older man's fingers rest nonchalantly on his holster. Remy flew past him, his heart feeling as though it would burst while his legs pumped hard and his breath puffed in haggard gasps. "Now wait a minute, boy, get back here! Hey you, I said get back here. You're foolin' with the law now, ya' hear?"  
  
"Last call for 'The City of New Orleans!'" Rang the conductor's voice. Remy was torn. He looked longingly in the direction of The Sun, but his train was seconds from pulling away. He had to catch that train or surely die. With one last desperate look, he boarded and fell into a seat, his shirt half-buttoned and his pants crinkled and bunched.   
  
He didn't care. Glum and hopeless and his head pounding, his forehead met the window and he watched New Orleans pass him by in a blur that slowly raced faster and faster. In the midst of the blue of the sky and the red of the brick, he thought he saw her waving him off in the departing walkway, or at least a flash of unimaginable green.  
  
Remy settled back into his seat and closed his eyes.  
  
"You leaving too, stranger?" Came an all too familiar voice in front of him. Remy peeked open his eyes to see Scott Summers sitting in the seat opposite him.   
  
"Scott!" Remy cried and then could not help but laugh bitterly. Soon, Scott joined in.  
  
"So where you headed?"   
  
Remy was silent for a second and said. "Anywhere away from The Rising Sun."  
  
Scott nodded. "Amen."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S INPUT  
For those of you who didn't figure out that a FLASH was going back in time or shooting forward to the present, you have my pity.  
  
In addition to The Animals song "House of the Rising Sun," I also credit the song "City of New Orleans," originally done by Arlo Guthrie for this particular chapter. If you've ever heard the song and then read this chapter, you'll know why;) Good morning, America How Are You? Don't you know me, I'm your native son? I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans, and I'll be gone 500 miles when the day is done. (I'm becoming quite the classic rock addict. It's getting almost pathetic but I can't help it. For all you Remy fans, give classic rock a try. Every other song is "New Orleans" this and "New Orleans" that. I Luv It!)  
  
Last and foremost, drop a line with your opinion. Why the jack not? 


	4. Return and Ache

The place even smelt the same. Scott stepped surely through the swinging doors, back straight, hat dipped over an eye, suit the color of melted butterscotch and tailored to a T. His eyes crawled over The Sun with intent eyes, memories sweeping over him like a hard wave. The bar still open at noon, the drunkards still drowning their sorrows just as early, and of course, crawling with more beautiful women than a man had a right to know. His gut wrenched at the sight.   
  
He pretended not to look for a particular beauty.  
  
Instead, he made his way to the bar in confident stride, so much the different man than he was six years ago- impressionable, aspiring, complete with ambition to change the world. Things change. Dreams change. Just the same, he was considerably happy, not to mention wealthy, a distinguished real estate agent, catering to the needs of men and women alike on this side of the Mississippi, thank you very much.   
  
"Bourbon, please."   
  
"Yes suh," said the tall black man behind the bar, handsome with a strong jaw and eyes that had seen too much in his day. Too many fellas left choking on their own broken hearts by these women.  
  
Scott stood, elbow at the bar and sipping his drink. While inclining his head to comb the room was when he saw Remy passed out drunk, flopped over a table, bottle of whiskey in his fist and an empty one not far. Scott shook his head and proceeded to approach his old friend.  
  
"Alright now, up you go." Scott encouraged as he hoisted Remy to sit up, patting his back firm and swift. "There you go."  
  
Remy squinted his eyes as he swam back to consciousness. "Wha... Scott?" He mumbled, groggy and head throbbing. "Is dat you?"  
  
The businessman nodded. "Yeah, Remy. It's me. How the hell are you, kid?" He pulled up a seat at the table, shoving bottles out of his way.  
  
Remy scoffed bitterly. "Honestly? I feel like I could die right now."  
  
Scott's eyes shifted about while he spoke. "You been here all this time?"  
  
"No, man. Not at all." Remy shook his head with great effort. "Just came back yesterday." The Cajun squinted again as if he was seeing Scott for the first time. "Woah, brot'er. You just comin' in, too?" He waved a hand at the ceiling when Scott nodded. "Fate, must be."  
  
Scott chose to ignore him. A man said a lot of things when he was drunk, or hung over. "What's got you like this then? You look like hell!"  
  
Remy surprised Scott when he sank his head in his hands and made an agonized sound, muffled but wounded like a tortured animal. Or heart.  
  
"Jesus Christ, what is it, Remy?" Scott asked suddenly. "What's the matter?" He laid a consoling hand on his friend's shoulder. "Tell me."  
  
Remy stared up at him blankly, his face etched in raw desperation. "I came back for Rogue," his voice was thick with emotion. "She's dead." 


	5. Preferable Ignorance

Scott sank into the chair across from his friend. "What? Are... Are you sure? Who..."  
  
"Emma. Emma told me and Jean said it was true."  
  
"Jean..." Scott's eyes became distant and thinking. "She's... still here?"  
  
Remy nodded numbly. "Yes, Jean." Remy bore into Scott, deciding whether or not to continue with the bad news but decided against it. Instead he grabbed Scott's forgotten bourbon and swallowed the small drink in three large gulps. "Why're you here?" He said slowly as if speaking was an immense effort.   
  
Scott blinked, suddenly forgetting why the hell he was here. Oh yes, Kurt. "A friend got me in contact with a man living here that would like to sell his land and find lodgings in California. I'm just here to work out some details, really. Won't be for long." Remy nodded but Scott doubted the miserable man had heard a word of his explanation. "What about you, Remy?"  
  
He shrugged lithe shoulders. "Got married," he sat back in his seat. "To *the* Belladonna Merchal."  
  
Scott's brows crinkled. "The actress?"  
  
Remy nodded. "Dat's her, all 115 pounds, blonde-haired blue-eyed bitch a man could ask for." He swallowed his whiskey. "I left her and came here like a damned fool. And dis is me now."   
  
Scott shook his head. "I'm sorry, Remy. Hey, let's get you to bed. Come on," he stood from his seat and crossed to Remy, dragging the drunken man to his feet. "Up you go, there."   
  
Remy leaned heavily on Scott as the pair made their way up the house stairs.   
  
"Gentlemen, where do you think you're going?" Came Emma's voice from behind them.  
  
Scott turned with Remy's arm slung around his shoulder. "To my room," he said with a boyish-sweet grin.  
  
Emma's eyes widened. "I don't even believe it. But it is; I never forget a face." She said, approaching them. "Well if it ain't Scott the Dandy Summers, best damn player I ever had. How are ya', kid?" She hugged him tight.   
  
"Right now, not the best I've ever been. I need to get a friend of mine here upstairs; he needs some rest."  
  
Emma eyed him carefully, obviously not recognizing the young Don Juan that succeeded in making her best working girl fall in love. She nodded her consent and Scott continued heaving Remy up the stairs and into his old room, obviously currently occupied by another- a woman, if the red rose décor and fine satin dresses were any consolation.   
  
"Gotta appreciate a woman dat never forgets a face," Remy remarked dryly as he fell back onto the large bed.  
  
Scott chuckled lightly. "Yeah, Emma's... something else." He pulled Remy's boots off. Scott settled into a chair at the small oak desk by the window and, tipping his hat over his eyes, attempted sleep.  
  
Remy too closed his eyes and clutched a pillow tight to his chest, trying in vain to alleviate the excruciating hurt swelling inside of him.  
  
  
**  
  
He couldn't sleep. Releasing the pillow, Remy glanced at his companion by the window. Scott had managed to doze under the streaming evening sunlight's heavy persuasion.   
  
Deciding his futile attempt at sleep was getting him nothing but a dwelling conscience, Remy silently stood from the bed and slipped out of the small, comfortable room. Once downstairs, he scanned the gambling room with keen, narrowed eyes. Slipping his hand in his trouser pocket to finger the cash it held, Remy made his way to a table and plopped into a seat.  
  
"Room for one more?" He asked innocently.  
  
A burly man tinted orange from bad sun and dirty brown curly hair grinned toothily, flashing a series of small, slightly rotting teeth. "Always room for one more, boy."  
  
  
**  
  
Scott's eyes flew open under his hat. He remained perfectly still, assessing what it was that had woken him. His pulse quickened surely and sweat formed on his palms. His ears remained strained.  
  
As there was no sun creeping under his hat, Scott inferred that it was now pitch dark both outside and inside his small room, except probably for the occasional boom of moonlight that streaked through the windowpane.   
  
He heard the door open, feet shuffling, then click shut quickly. The bed mattress shifted as someone climbed upon it. No, two people. He heard a dark baritone grumble in his throat followed by the distinct sound of mouth on flesh, then a cheery, feminine giggle.  
  
Scott would not hear this. He brought his arm up and lifted his hat. The couple did not notice him, simply continued groping each other in the dark. The man was hovering above her, his large hands slowly inching her many skirts up while she peppered kisses on his face and neck.  
  
Knowing he held no chance of escaping through the door unnoticed, Scott, mortally humiliated, cleared his throat to make his presence known.   
  
The woman, whom Scott could not make out but a sheer silhouette, screeched in horror and clutched at the crumpled sheets around her. The man stood and immediately turned an oil lamp.   
  
Light was shed onto the entire situation.  
  
Scott's breath rushed from him in one giant sweep, his body empty with nothing but an unmitigated disbelief.  
  
"No," he choked when his eyes fell on a mass of crimson curls.   
  
The customer elicited a string of curse words before promptly storming out of the room.  
  
She was propped against the headboard, her mouth a round quivering 'o' and the magnolia-white of her skin blotched red where he gripped her too tightly. She lowered her big blue eyes, her rust-colored eyelashes shadowing them from his shameful glare.   
  
He shook his head violently and moved to leave, but she scampered off the bed and blocked him. "No, don't go," she said, extending her arms.  
  
He regained composure and slowly walked to his chair and settled back into it. "How's your father?" He asked dumbly.  
  
"Dead," she said quickly. "After the tuberculosis beat him, Pete and Mattie were taken to their Aunt Margaret's, thank God for that." Jean lifted her head to the sky and silently thanked just Him that her siblings were not here to witness her disgusting downfall and being well supported at her aunt's.  
  
Scott nodded slowly, his mind spinning and a thread of despair coiling in his body. "I see."  
  
A sickened silence permeated and the past lovers met each other's eyes fleetingly, both feeling as if they had failed the other.  
  
"When did Rogue die?" Scott asked, trying to think about something, anything else.  
  
She was startled for a moment, then confused, and finally smiled nervously. "Rogue..." she stated simply and wandered to her wardrobe. She selected a silk nightgown the hue of an ocean and laid it out onto her bed. "You've been speaking with Remy, I see." She stopped. "Isn't that the strangest thing? That you both came back on the exact same day? Must be fate." She smiled.  
  
"So I've heard," Scott said, watching her fumble with the laces at her back. Much to his dismay, Jean did not ask for his assistance in untying the small bows. He turned his head modestly when the garment fell from her body entirely. "Jesus, Jean." He half-chastised, half-pleaded.  
  
She noticed his embarrassed and even disdained reaction at her blatantly nude body. She hurriedly snatched the gown back up around her breasts. "Sorry," she mumbled, her honey-sweet voice now a complete opposite from her brassy, painted eyelids and shades and shades of red piled onto her naturally fresh, plump lips. "Close your eyes then." He did so, making his legs promise to run right out of the two-story high window if he so much as cracked an eyelid. "Don't peek," she teased. He could hear the smile in her voice.   
  
"Anyways, Rogue isn't dead. She simply... chooses not to see Remy."   
  
"Why!? And why would she make such an awful lie about being deceased? Does she know how crushed he is?" Scott suddenly wondered where the hell Remy was.  
  
"Woah, easy partner." Scott jumped at the sound of her voice so close to him. His eyes opened to see her fully clad body standing over him. "One at a time." She said.  
  
"Okay, why doesn't Rogue want to see Remy?"  
  
"A girl has a right to see and not see whomever she wants." Jean shrugged a shoulder and made her way to her vanity, sitting and dabbing perfume on her neck and wrists from a small glass bottle.  
  
"Why would she tell such a horrible lie? Is she still working?"   
  
Jean sighed. "Lord, Scott. If you must know, no, Rogue is no longer working." She caught Scott's eyes in the mirror where he stood four paces behind her.   
  
He shook his head, his fingers toying with the rim of his almond-colored hat. "By God but Remy's going to take this mighty hard."  
  
Jean spun on her stool. "Remy will never know." She stated coolly.   
  
"Remy will never know what?" Came the sultry Cajun voice from the half-opened door.  
  
"Remy!" Scott and Jean cried.   
  
He grinned devilishly from where he leaned against the doorframe. "One and only. Isn't it de strangest t'ing, Scott? Dat Jeannie here lives in your old room, now?" His words were slow and slurred and he staggered weakly to the bed.   
  
Scott rubbed his palms against his pant, embarrassed, suddenly realizing that Remy must have known Jean had become what she had in his absence but had not informed him. "Yeah, Remy. Strange." He looked to Jean but she wouldn't meet his eyes. The sight of her soft, downy limbs intertwined with the greasy, hulking man from before sent repugnance rising in his throat.  
  
Remy fell back onto the bed. "Made a killing out dere. At least some t'ings never change: gamblers will always be stupid or cocky, bot' of which are heavy weaknesses." He stared at the ceiling as if he were talking to it and not his audience.  
  
Jean sat, stiff and impatient on her vanity stool. Had he heard?   
  
Remy captured her eyes with his ruby-specked ones. "Don't make me ask again, Jeannie."  
  
She chuckled nervously. "What are you talking about, crazy Cajun?"  
  
He rolled to his side and propped an elbow for support. "What will I never know?"  
  
Jean turned to Scott to beg that he remain silent, but this time *he* did not meet *her* eyes. "Rogue is not dead, Remy."  
  
Remy blinked. Downstairs, the sound of boisterous natives and tourists alike could be heard, laughing and enjoying and indulging. In Jean's private quarters, only the scattered breathing of three old friends could be heard. He opened his mouth to speak but his mouth ran bare for words. His eyes darted but finally resting, accusingly, on Jean.  
  
"Is dat true? Did you lie to me?"  
  
She opened her round mouth in defense but Scott caught her off.  
  
"It wasn't her fault. Rogue told her to lie."  
  
His eyebrows crinkled. "What?" He shook his head. "No. She wouldn't do dat." He hopped from the bed and stood, prompting his two companions to do likewise. "What de hell is going on here?" His eyes pinpointed Jean again.   
  
She sighed audibly. "No, Rogue is alive. After she quit working, she told us girls to tell any man that asked about her that she was dead. But especially you, Remy."  
  
The air left his body as if he'd been slammed in the gut. He stumbled back, confused. "Why? Why would she lie to me?"  
  
Both men looked to Jean. She stood across from them, shaking her head and biting her lip. "I can't-"  
  
"Damn it, Jean! Tell me! Why? Why would she lie? Lie to me?" He wrenched her shoulders and dug his slender fingers into her yielding shoulders, unaware he'd even been shaking her until Scott pried him away.  
  
"Remy! Leave her be! Let her alone!" Scott steadied him, straightening his shirt and brushing him off. "Calm down, Remy. Calm down."  
  
Jean clutched her nightgown between thin, trembling fingers. When it was silent again, she spoke. "After you left, she would hardly eat or talk. She lost customers by the day. But then..." She swallowed the knot in her throat.   
  
"What?" He tensed, shrugging from Scott's grip, as if the real-estate agent had anything to worry about; Remy had seen and done many things in his young life, but he would never beat a woman.  
  
Jean sank back down at her vanity. "Well, then *he* came in, sweet-talking a mile a minute, but especially Rogue." She became wistful. "He wouldn't except anyone's business but hers. He was really sweet on her, wouldn't leave her alone." Jean paused for a silent beat. "I think she was lonely. No one had talked to her like that since..." Jean looked at Remy. "Well, since you had come. Everyone could tell her really *cared* about her."  
  
Remy shook his head. "I cared about her. I *still* care about her!"  
  
"She married him." Jean stated simply.  
  
Remy froze, the three inconceivable words ringing through his ears like an indecipherable foreign tongue. "Married?" He croaked.  
  
She nodded slowly. Scott shook his head sadly and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Remy."  
  
He shrugged Scott's hand away with one violent roll of his lithe shoulders. "Don't be. I don't need pity." He bore into Jean's wide blue eyes with his own demonic ones. "I need an address. Now petite, if you'd be so kind..."  
  
  
  
  
A/N  
  
Two things, wonderful people:  
1.) This story *might* not have a sugarcoated, sweet, happy-ever-after ending. Maybe. Dunno yet......hehe. Ahem. Yeah.  
  
2.) Said ending will most likely be in the next chapter, if not then definitely the next one. No, it doesn't have a *real* plot. Yes, writing it is fun as hell. But as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters.  
  
REVIEW folks, and tell me what I'm doing wrong, right, or not doing at all! 


	6. Husband and Bride

Rogue's eyes fluttered open against the warm, enveloping Louisiana sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. She saw her husband Donitello scurry about the bedroom in preparation for his morning stroll.   
  
"Oh, do you have to go this morning?" She sat up in bed, arching her back just so as she stretched. He made futile attempts not to watch every muscle in her body ripple under her velvety skin and eventually stared on, transfixed.  
  
"Now, now darling. We've spoken about this before." He bent at the waist to plant a kiss on her forehead. "I am a writer, and as so I must go, clear my head, think." He stood and gazed down at her lovely form. "I can hardly breathe in your presence, much less think."  
  
Rogue settled back against her pillows, holding his gaze. "Do what you must. Ah'll be heuh when you get back." She grinned.  
  
He tipped his head to the sky. "Thank the heavens." He kissed her once more and slipped through their narrow white doors complete with intricate French carvings scrawled around the edges.   
  
She was alone for nearly ten minutes when she heard a shuffle at her open window. She stood to peer out at the busy morning streets of her city.  
  
"Nice, ain't it?" Came the unmistakable voice just beside her.  
  
Rogue shrieked, putting the room's distance between them as he climbed in from the window. "Remy! What in God's... What the hell are you doin' heuh?" Her eyes were wide and achingly beautiful as far as the Cajun was concerned. She clutched the fabric of her fitting peach nightgown and Remy wanted to stare but he knew now was not the time.  
  
He threw her an easy grin that sent her head drowning in memories. "Came back. Y'always knew I'd be back, chere."  
  
She shook her head fiercely. "No, yoah gone. Ah'm ovah you."  
  
Remy tilted his head. "Can't believe dat."  
  
"Ah don't care what you believe." She snapped. "What the hell are you doin' heuh?"  
  
"Here in N'Awlins or here in your house?"  
  
"Both."  
  
He shrugged. "N'Awlins for you; your house because Jeannie said it was true but I just couldn't believe it- married. I wanted to see him."  
  
She rolled remarkably green eyes. "Gawd Remy, don't do this to me. Please, please leave befoah he gets back!"  
  
Remy's eyes darted toward the door defiantly. "Let him find me here, in de arms of his wife." He smiled devilishly at her and she shook her head.   
  
"Please, Remy!" She clutched at his arms and led him to the door. She opened it quickly. "Go!"  
  
He paused on his way out. "You've got to come- to de House, tonight."   
  
She shook her head, a snowy strand cascading against her temple. "Ah can't, Remy. Impossible."  
  
"Midnight," he stated. "Midnight or I come and kidnap you myself." He held her eyes for a lingering moment before leaving. She closed the door quietly behind him.  
  
  
**  
  
Scott's nimble fingers played over the ivory keys like a fickle lover, lavishing some notes more than others. He had bared his soul to this piano as a young man, hopelessly enchanted with a mere girl.   
  
That very girl-turned-woman-much-too-quickly sat beside him, an occupied cigarette holder in her slim fingers and streaming smoke between the two. Strangled coughs escaped her mouth. He made a disapproving face. "Those... *things* are absolutely lewd."  
  
She smirked, inhaling the nicotine deeply. "Don't be such a prude, Scott. Besides, everyone dies." Her voice was looming and gray. He met her eyes but she stood quickly.   
  
"I remember once you told me," she began, making her way behind the bar, "that if I ever wrote one, you would play it." She waved a collection of smeared white papers in the air that Scott inferred had been stashed behind the counter somewhere. "You still going to make good on that promise?"  
  
Scott nodded positively. "Of course. Bring it here, then." She set them down before him and he rolled up his white, ironed sleeves. "Let's see, what do we have here?" He squinted over the furtive scribbles of note heads and staff lines. Suddenly, fluidly, his hands caressed the row of keys and Jean's music wafted through the bar like something pure.   
  
The tune was ebullient and jovial at first, a mixture of quick high notes. Then it slowed to something darker and deep like the color indigo. It continued like this for some time until finally, the notes ever-so-slowly began to pick up and transform into something graceful and beautiful and just *sounded* like hope. Scott's motions came to an immediate halt, the music seemingly dropping unannounced from the very air. Some of the others half-listening to the piece mumbled comments of disapproval for the sudden ending. He looked over at Jean standing beside him. "It's not finished," he said.  
  
She nodded. "I know. It's not finished yet." Her words were quiet.  
  
He blinked at the papers. Standing, he piled them together and took them in his hands. "I'll write the end for you."  
  
She looked to him, her heavy-lidded eyes an engaging blue. "Thank you, Scott."  
  
He only nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He'd write the ending. He'd be damned if it'd be anything but happy, too.   
  
  
**  
  
It was late. Remy slouched in a chair, his knuckles tapping restlessly on the wooden table. Midnight, he said. Not twelve-thirty. Or twelve-thirty eight, to be precise.  
  
But the door opened, gaining her entrance. His face lit up. He knew she'd come and he voiced his accuracy.  
  
She sighed. "Ah knew Ah'd nevah see the end of you if Ah didn't."   
  
The House was eerily dark and quiet around them, save for the occasional poker chip falling, but warm. Rogue slipped the black hood from her head and let it rest against her back. "Ah can't stay long. Donitello maght wake up."  
  
Remy scoffed. "Why Rogue? Why?"  
  
Her eyes flashed like green lightening and Remy thought he'd never miss the day he saw anger in her eyes, but God he'd missed all of her. "How dare you! Ah've done nothing wrong, Remy. You left, remember? And aftah that, I couldn't eat or sleep. Ah couldn't get customers lookin' like that. Ah was crazy!" She fumed, resisting the urge to pace. "But Donitello came and that was it. *He* wasn't some crazy desperado with love in the wind and then Ah nevah see him again! No, he was heuh with me where he belonged. And Gawd, Remy, he wanted to *marry* me. He asked me himself- got down on one knee and everything." She paused, forcing tears from her beautiful eyes. "You left me, remember? And married!"  
  
His jaw clenched but he quickly recovered. "How'd you know about dat?" Rogue bit her lip, shaking her head wordlessly. "Damn it, I swear to die if dat girl Jeannie ever keeps her mout' shut!" Remy regained control instantly. "So what? He married you and he's rich. Dat's why you love him, chere? I can be all dat right now, just say de word, Rogue. But do you love him?"  
  
She stared him deep in his wine eyes. "Yes."  
  
Remy watched her walk out of The Rising Sun and mused that Rogue could do many things to him. She could please or devastate him with a simple glorious smile. She could make him dream all night- pure and un-pure. She could drag him back all the way from New York to his dreaded hometown of New Orleans with just her memory. But if there was one thing Remy knew she could never do properly to him, was lie.  
  
  
**  
  
The next night, Scott sipped wine at a House table. Why the hell he was even still in New Orleans, he did not know. His work here was done; he had settled all the details with Kurt and now he was able to go home. But still he stayed- lured back the way moths were to a flame. In this case, a scarlet flame.   
  
A man slid into the chair opposite him and it wasn't until Scott looked up that he recognized the giant body to be that of Sebastian Shaw's. Two more men joined the table on either side.  
  
"What do you say to a friendly game of poker, Scotty?" He grinned.  
  
"You know I don't gamble, Shaw."  
  
Sebastian shrugged. "Friendly- no bets. Strictly affable."  
  
Scott eyed the other man solemnly before polishing off his drink. "Deal, then."  
  
Sebastian tipped his head back and laughed boisterously. "That a boy, Scotty, that a boy." He tossed cards around one by one until all four men held five. "So what brings you back, son?" He shared a sly smile with his companions. "Or should I say, who?"  
  
"I had to iron out the details of a business deal with a fellow down here."  
  
"Oh surely you can do better than that, Scott."  
  
Scott gripped his cards. "I'm not entirely interested in what you believe, Sebastian."  
  
"It's no secret that you had an affair of some sort with the little redheaded whore."  
  
Scott clenched his jaw. "You know her name is Jean," he said coolly.   
  
Sebastian slammed his hand onto the table, causing the other three to start. "I know a lot of things, you little bastard." He spat. "How dare you move in here like you own the place, how dare you? I might have let you make a fool out of me all those years ago when you plucked in a single night what I had spent so many years growing but I won't let you spit in my face again, do you understand me boy?" He released his grip on the edge of the table and visibly relaxed. "No matter," he tossed with a small shrug. "I've had her plenty of times since then." He paused to let the words sink into Scott like poison. "We've all had her. Even after the diagnosis."  
  
Scott blinked, unable to speak for several beats until, "What diagnosis?"  
  
Shaw straightened. "Ah, you haven't heard? Oh well that's a shame. Your silly little girl has the consumption. It was really an ordeal for me, if you don't mind me saying. I mean, to have to treat her father for it and then her only years later; I tell you, it was heartbreaking."  
  
  
**  
  
Rogue wrung the cloth and excess water splashed into the wide bowl. "Easy, now. Is it worse today, sugah?"  
  
Jean lied sweating in her bed. She knew how blessed she was with a friend like Rogue who would come and tend to her on days that she was just too weak. "Yes, I think so. I thank you again for coming, Rogue. I know Don must hate me." She giggled throatily but it soon developed into a coughing spasm. Rogue dabbed the damp cloth on her forehead.   
  
"Easy, honey. Don't even think about me. You just rest yoahself."  
  
"I don't want to rest," she complained. "I want to go to Siberia."  
  
Rogue laughed out loud. "One thing at a time."  
  
"Well, at least indulge me in some gossip. Let's talk about Remy."  
  
Rogue shook her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in the process. "Oh Lawd, heuh we go again."  
  
Jean wheezed a bit but quickly regained herself. "I think you love him. Donitello is nice; he's passionate, sweet, and he writes. Those are all wonderful things to have in a man, but Don doesn't make you blush."  
  
Rogue rolled her eyes. "Remy does not make me blush!" A pause. "Does he? No, absolutely not."  
  
"Like a schoolgirl with her first kiss!"  
  
"Well maybe if Remy hadn't *left* in the first place..."  
  
"Remy had to leave," Jean said quietly. Her eyes became distant and Rogue knew she was thinking about Scott.  
  
Rogue brought her hand over Jean's. "Hey, listen to me, sugah. Scott had to leave, too. He just couldn't watch you hurt yoahself." Rogue looked away, tears threatening to slide down her own creamy cheeks. "Ah'm sorry Ah watched."  
  
Jean opened her weak mouth to reply when Scott flung her bedroom door open. Jean threw the cloth from her forehead and bolted upright. "Scott!"  
  
"Scott Summahs!" Rogue shouted. "What in the hell are you doin'?"  
  
Scott's own exclamations spoke over hers, both trying to outdo the other. Amongst the chaos, Jean grew weak from all the excitement and had to lie back down, clutching the wet cloth in one hand and fanning herself with the other.   
  
"Christ Almaghty, Scott. Out! Out! Let's go," Rogue shooed him out, following him into the hallway and closing the door behind her. "For Gawd's sake, Summahs!"  
  
Scott's eyes were wide and the veins in his neck thick like chords. "You didn't tell me! Why didn't you tell me? God, Rogue, why? How is she?"  
  
"Calm down, boy, calm down. Listen, she's tired. Leave her alone for tonaght and come back tomorrow. She'll answer all yoah questions then. And she's got a few for you, too, so be prepared, cowboy." Scott opened his mouth to protest but Rogue was already ushering him down the winding staircase. "Go. Tomorrow."   
  
Scott nodded, defeated. "Tomorrow." He repeated, and stumbled slowly down the staircase alone.  
  
  
**  
  
Rogue stepped through her door, weary and tired from the night. She tugged at her white silk gloves and made her way into the parlor.  
  
"Roguey! Remember me, chere?" Remy captured her in a tight hug, her husband grinning behind him.  
  
"Can you believe it?" Donitello said. "Oh look, Remy, she must not remember you. Rogue, honey, this is Remy LeBeau; he went to grade school with you, remember?" He shook his head at Remy. "I don't suppose she would, after all, it was quite some time ago."  
  
Remy did a flip of the hand. "None sense. She remembers." He held her shoulders and gazed at her, his garnet eyes glittering with hidden amusement.   
  
Rogue nodded slowly. "Oh, oh yes. Ah remembah now. How are you, Remy?" She held her arms out and hugged him awkwardly.  
  
"Oh fine, just fine." He held her chin and kissed her cheek, then the other for good measure. "And how are t'ings wit' you? See you've found a wonderful husband for yourself, here." He hugged her again. "My how you've grown! Dis can't be little Rogue. It can't be!"  
  
Donitello chuckled. "Yep, that's her alright. Isn't she somethin'?"  
  
Rogue smiled under their gazes, color invading her cheeks. "Please," she glared at Remy, "Stop." He winked. "Will you be staying with us for the naght?" Nobody's that cocky, she thought. Well...  
  
"Oh no, I have a hotel, thank you."  
  
"Well at least stay for dinner," Donitello encouraged unknowingly.   
  
Remy tapped his chin, eyeing Rogue with a wide grin. "Of course!"  
  
  
**  
  
Scott could never be a master thief, he knew, as stealth was never a prominent attribute of his. Instead, he used something he was born with and thus embedded in his veins: a certain boyish charm that most women, particularly older ones, found attractive. Emma was a prime target. She easily let him inside after hours and up the staircase so that he may check on Jean.  
  
He sat in her room, at the same chair he sat when he first saw her in years, albeit with another man- a customer. She was asleep and he wasn't about to wake her.  
  
How had he not noticed it? Easily, he thought. She powdered herself down until all he could see of her was shades of red and white. It was a simple mistake not to have noticed how pallid she'd become, how her cheekbones were starting to stick out, how tiny her frame was getting.   
  
Her coughing fit brought him to his feet in an instant, dabbing the blood that had spotted the corners of her mouth. "Mmm, thank you, Rogue." She brought her small hand over his own large one, her eyes flying open at the touch. "Scott!" She rasped.  
  
"Shh," he soothed, moving to dip the rag back in water and wring it clean. He swiped it across her forehead. She jerked away.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
He took a seat on her bed. "I don't know." He said finally.  
  
She blinked up at him, her brows etched in confusion. "You don't... Heavens give me patience!" She laughed, her throat husky and dry. With an effort, she sat up, adjusting her pillows behind her to accommodate her position. They sat in silence for a moment, her staring at the ceiling and him pretending to be intrigued with the worn edges of the wet cloth. A soft wind blew outside in the warm Louisiana night.  
  
She finally inclined her head to meet his eyes. "Did you always want to be a real estate agent?" She asked.  
  
He straightened. "W... Well, I... no. No, I didn't. I wanted to be Frederic Chopin."  
  
She smiled and a spark of pride flashed in him. "You could have been."  
  
He broke the awkward silence that came from talking of his broken dreams by asking her, "What do you want to be when you get out of this place, Red?"  
  
She sighed audibly, brushing back sweat-drenched hair form her face. "Oh, Scott. I'm not getting out of here."  
  
"That's not true." He stated sharply. "You are getting out of here. I swear you are."  
  
Jean stared him down for a second until her features melted into another smile. "Alright, smarty. You know everything, you tell me what I'm going to be."  
  
He paused to think, never breaking eye contact. "You're going to be... You're going to be..." He shook his head very slowly and still she held his eyes, "Something great, Jean. Greater than anything I know."  
  
She turned her head, burying her cheek into the pillow. Her eyes became distant and Scott thought he saw something he hadn't seen in her young eyes for a long time... hope?   
  
"Tell me about your life, Scott. Never married?"  
  
He bowed his head, a rosy tinge creeping into his cheeks. "No, never."  
  
She turned back to him, her eyes dancing. "Why not, hmm? Handsome man like yourself."  
  
"I just... didn't. I could never get over a particular silly childhood fantasy."  
  
Jean tilted her head and regarded him. "Silly?" She prompted softly.  
  
"After that kind of pain, you don't *want* to marry. I kept the memory in a little glass box stored way in the back of my heart. But something brought me back to it."  
  
A grin touched her mouth. "Fate, must be."  
  
"So I've heard."  
  
  
**  
  
Remy awoke the next morning in his small hotel bed. Pounding commenced on his door. Squinting his eyes and muttering a colorful string of curse words, he tugged on trousers and swung the door open.  
  
"Who de hell do you... Rogue!" He stepped back. "Enter, enter chere."  
  
She flounced in, the russet curls pinned atop her head bouncing with every angry step. "What the hell did you think you were doing? Do you know the kind of trouble you could have gotten into? I have nevah seen anyone so ridiculously intent on making a damned fool of himself. I sweah to Gawd, you are askin-"  
  
"I missed you too, Rogue."  
  
She paused, stepping over to him. He saw it coming- she wasn't fast enough for his trained eyes- but he let her smack him once and hard across the right cheek.  
  
"Look," he began, "I wasn't trying to insult you or any such t'ing, but I knew dat was de only way I was ever going to be able to see him, de way you were carrying on."  
  
She brought black silk-gloved fingers to her temple. "Remy," she started calmly, "Ah understand that it must be hard and maybe yoah not ready to accept it, but Ah have happily married myself off. Ah meant it when Ah said that Ah love Donitello."  
  
He snorted, smothering a cigarette that had been abandoned in a glass ashtray by his bed. "Why are you really here?"  
  
She planted her hands on her curvaceous hips. "To warn you to leave me alone or next time Ah tell Don the truth."  
  
He spun, his eyes locking with hers. "Go. Stay. I don't care."  
  
She was quiet for a second, remaining stationary and staring deeply. Slowly, she turned and made her way to his door.  
  
Remy reached a hand out and whipped her back, spinning her until she faced him and kissed her hard, burying his hands in her hair and mussing her coiffure.  
  
She raised her hands to his arms and dug her gloved fingernails into his biceps either in an attempt to wriggle free or because his kiss was making her weak, she wasn't even sure.  
  
Rogue struggled at first, but not as hard as Remy knew she could.  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N  
Ok, I thought about adding a little more and ending this story at this chapter, but I'm going to follow my notes and go on with the very last chapter, which can be found at a fanfiction.net near you. And since I'm a willing slave of my readers and my readers preferred a not-so-unhappy ending, I tweaked my outline a bit to accommodate you wunnerful wunnerful people! 


	7. The End

Scott watched the girl at his piano from across the room. She was young- fourteen, maybe- and her face contorted in concentration as she dabbled with the keys, plucking notes from the air and combining them to form a catchy tune. She repeated it several times, adding onto it slowly, slowly, and Scott allowed himself a small smile.  
  
And then a frown just as quickly as he noticed Sebastian Shaw slide onto the bench beside her. Scott bit the side of his mouth as Shaw molested the girl behind smiling, sincere eyes. He chatted with her for a moment, unaware of Scott's watchful glare, and moved his mouth close to her small ear. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, obviously perturbed by his close proximity. When he withdrew, she colored slightly and shook her head, raising a hand to her forehead as if to tell him she was feeling ill. Shaw did not want to hear that at all. Instead, he settled his hand on her thin arm, sinking big fingers into her pretty skin and wrenching her close against his wide chest.   
  
When she attempted to wriggle free, Sebastian murmured drunken curses into her neck and clamped her close, drawing a small crowd. Scott waited for the girl's father to intervene, but he didn't come. Deciding he had nothing to lose, Scott shot to his feet and cut through the crowd until he was closest to Shaw. "Hey," he said sharply. When Shaw turned to regard him, Scott took the opportunity to deck him swift and hard across the cheek. Roars of approval bellowed around him. Scott's eyes widened in shock and vindication, despite the dull pain throbbing through his knuckles.   
  
His moment of glory was cut short when Shaw sprang to his feet and threw his own punches in- one in Scott's eye and two into his abdomen.  
  
Scott yelped, clutching at his stomach and stumbling backward. He felt arms steady his back and shoulder and recognized Jean's voice. "Scott! Come on; I'll get you fixed up." She tugged at him and Scott saw Shaw standing before him, triumphant grin plastered across his features. Scott imagined that very grin directed toward Jean five years ago when he leant a hand toward her demise. The thought of Jean then- young and bright as a blooming rose- swelled inside of Scott and strength accompanied it.   
  
He lunged forth against Sebastian, hurling punches wherever he could get them- against his cheeks, eyes, and nose. The crowd hollered and screamed encouragements all around him until their voices were a shrilling, unending drone. Amidst their calls he heard a single voice clear as a high bell. "Scott. Scott!"  
  
He turned and saw her swaying on her feet, both hands against her temples and her face flushed red. He stood, receiving no resistance from the body beneath him. He rushed to her just as her blue eyes rolled back into black abysses and she slumped against him as if her bones had melted. He scooped her unconscious form and carried her upstairs, leaving a battered Sebastian Shaw behind him.  
  
  
**  
  
Rogue sat on the plush chair positioned by an open window in her room, a book between her delicate white hands. Her eyes scanned the pages but her mind was not on the novel she held. Instead, she pondered Jean's short years; her husband's thoughtful ink-black eyes; Remy's sensual passion from the night before. Her eyes fluttered closed at this and her heart skipped a single beat. She heard her front door open and the steady footsteps of her tall, handsome husband as he searched throughout their house for her. "Ah'm in the bedroom," she croaked, tears already welling in her pools of liquid emerald.  
  
He appeared at the door, smiling brightly. "Ah, hello love." He crossed to her and bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head, shying from his mouth. He stood, his brows etched in worry.   
  
"What is it, darling?" He knelt beside her when she didn't respond, folding his hands in her lap. "Rogue, tell me."  
  
She met his eyes then, her full bottom lip trembling. "We must talk, Donitello."  
  
  
**  
  
Remy held the cigarette between his fingertips, inhaling the smoke deeply and resting his head against the headboard. He hadn't made the bed yet; he hadn't wanted to, because as long as the sheets were crumpled and the scent of her auburn hair still lingered in the pillows, he would know that she had been there, with him the night before. If he died tonight he'd die happy knowing that.  
  
The knock at his door shook him from his reverie. "Come in," he called, extinguishing his cigarette. He swung his legs over the bed and straightened, his hands resting on either side of him.  
  
The doorknob turned slowly and a wave of apprehension swallowed the Cajun man. He shot to his feet but Donitello had already closed the door behind him, arm raised and pistol in his trembling hand. Remy froze, standing only three paces away from the barrel of a loaded gun and his mind quickly calculating the best approach to his dilemma.   
  
"Thief," Donitello spat, his voice wavering and his mouth pursed tightly. "Liar. How..." he swallowed a sob, "How dare you. I love her... more than you could ever fathom if you lived to be immortal!" He hollered the last part, his sore emotions getting the better of him.  
  
The gun shook in his hands and Remy's emblazoned eyes locked onto it, his own hands raised defensively in the air. "Donitello, t'ink, homme. T'ink. You don't want to commit a murder. You don't want to do dat."  
  
His shoulders shook softly. "She's..." Donitello choked. "She's..." Emotion and raw pain caught in his throat. "She's," he tried again.  
  
Remy nodded slowly, closing the space between them and lowering the gun in Donitello's compliant hand. "I know," he said quietly.  
  
Rogue's husband bore into Remy's eyes and the Cajun fought the urge to turn from him. Tears in a man's eyes were scorching. And they had been his own eyes for the last five years.  
  
Donitello- artist, poet, lover, but never killer- sighed, running a hand across his face. "I can't kill you. I can't... kill another man."   
  
Remy swallowed. "Den you're a better man dan I am, homme."' He reached a hand and rested it on the other man's shoulder. Donitello jerked away violently as if Remy had burned his skin.  
  
"You love her." It wasn't a question or statement, it was a command and Remy nodded positively. "Make her happy all the time."  
  
"You don't even have to tell me, mon ami."  
  
Donitello's eyes seared through Remy, full of hatred and contempt but with it a twinge of mutual respect. Both men had gambled their everything on one woman, and both had been wounded in the process, but in the end, only one was blessed.   
  
Too hurt to truly hate, Donitello stalked to Remy's door, turning suddenly and blurting, "Does it ever get easier? I mean, will I ever forget her?"  
  
What could Remy do? Five years his lesions had to heal and yet even time could not dull the ache. That's why he came back.  
  
Remy nodded. "You will in time."  
  
Donitello smiled weakly, appreciating the lie in some sick fashion. And then he was gone.  
  
  
**  
  
Remy waited at The Sun later. They had never officially agreed to meet there but he knew she'd come. That's where he'd find her.  
  
She stepped through the door, black hood draped across her head and pretty face peeking from within. She saw his face and smiled- really smiled. Remy's pulse quickened. He ran to greet her but she met him halfway. He didn't have the strength to be incredibly romantic and sweep her off her feet, just kiss, long and sweet with the feel of her slim hands in his hair and her body cradled in his arms.  
  
They parted, her sparkling green eyes gazing into his adoringly. "Why are you here?" He asked, a smile playing at his lips.  
  
She sighed thoughtfully. "You've obviously nevah met anyone with red eyes like yoah's." She grinned, and he couldn't help but kiss her again.  
  
  
**  
Jean rested soundly, cradled in Scott's arms and having just woken up after the excitement of his little bar escapade. He smiled down at her. "Hello darling."  
  
"Why hello," she replied, stifling a yawn. They laid like that for a moment, reveling in the peaceful glow they'd created.   
  
Scott breathed her in, soft and fragile and no powder layered on her skin- she really looked twenty-one now. He squeezed her gently. "I like you like this. No rouge on your cheeks and your lips pink as the day you were born. You look... beautiful." The corners of her mouth perked and she planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Jean, I..." he began awkwardly.  
  
"Yes, Scott?"  
  
"I... want to take you away from here. When we were kids I promised I'd come back and I just want you to know that that hasn't changed. You're getting out of here."  
  
She sighed, turning her head. Scott felt her shake in his arms and he immediately shifted to face her. "What is it? Jean, what's wrong?"  
  
She chuckled bitterly, swiping angrily at her tears. "Oh, Scott," she cried quietly. "I'm dying." She looked up at him with watery blue eyes. "I'm dying," she repeated even more softly.   
  
He hugged her close. "Jean, Jean. Stop crying, now. Just don't. Listen here, *I'm* going to take care of you, you hear? I'll take care of you." He kissed her face, over her eyelids, across her smooth cheekbones, her pale forehead and rose-petal lips. "We leave tonight."  
  
She gazed at him. "What if I give you the consumption, the way my father..." her voice trailed off and was swallowed by the dark walls of her room.   
  
He kissed her once more, longer this time and with sure fervor. "Then let it take me. To live with you a brief moment in love surpasses by far the hellish agony I've endured without you."  
  
She took his hands in her own. "Tonight, then."  
  
  
**  
  
Months later, Donitello wandered the fine streets of his city New Orleans as he was often seen doing on nights when the heat remained and the air hung still like the stars. She had long gone with some friends of hers, undoubtedly never to be seen again, that he knew.   
  
On his casual midnight stroll a gentle wind caressed his hair and skin, leading him down a twisted dirt road and to his own sealed fate.  
  
Sick with misery, he followed the road until he met a ruined house at the side. Curious, he climbed the porch stairs, gaining himself entrance. The sound of gay laughter and merry music pierced his ears and he read the sign carved in the wood panel just over the entrance.  
  
'House of the Rising Sun'  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N  
Yeah, so that's my story. You see what happens when you're enslaved by plot bunnies spawned from a single song? Let this be a lesson to you.  
  
Tell me how you think it ended or *should* have ended. REVIEW, good people! 


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